Do you think that what I feel about you is going to turn into love? Do you think it's indicative of passion to which I'll admit when the time is right?
Maybe you don't know that I have conversations with myself about my loathing of you. I am a muttering homeless woman, muttering about my hatred of you.
There is not one day of my life that I don't think about suicide all day. There is nothing that I can do to stop you and all of your asshole friends from inflicting your shit on the world for the rest of your lives. I don't know how I could hate you more.
I have never met you. I have never talked to you on the phone. I have never sexted you. I HAVE NO RELATIONSHIP WITH YOU.
I figured it out over the past few days. When you wanted me to say that I would date you or marry you if you threw away your marriage to Jennifer Garner, which I adamantly told you that I wouldn't, you didn't care if it were right or wrong for you to treat your marriage as if it were disposable. You were only worried about what people might say about it, and you knew that people wouldn't say a lot about it because you're a rich, male celebrity and you can do whatever you want.
Those are pictures of an article from the past few days.
You thought this was what I wanted; that's what everyone who attacked me while you were sleeping with this woman thought. You thought I wanted to flaunt dating you. You knew that if you divorced your wife and dated me, people would only cluck about it for a few days and then I'd "be a star," as if dating a male celebrity makes a tramp someone instead of nobody.
Even the nauseating tramp who ruined your marriage thinks she can fuck with me.
Copyright, with noted exceptions, L. Kochman, August 30, 2017 @ 12:25 p.m.
